


whenever i'm alone with you

by dustyloves



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Brexit, F/F, Feminism, Pining, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8428783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyloves/pseuds/dustyloves
Summary: ‘Alright,’ Grantaire bellows. ‘The first rule of Feminist Fight Club is we do not talk about Feminist Fight Club.'





	

**Author's Note:**

> The fic where Grantaire is the sexy boxing instructor for Les Amis de l'ABC's new women's self-defence group and Enjolras suffers! PS: Everyone is a wlw!
> 
> This is set at a British university where everyone has French names. C'est normal. 
> 
> Obviously Tholomyès is not of the Amis generation, but when I first read Hugo's description of Tholomyès, I was like, 'I know this guy. This is literally every smug frat boy/Bullingdon Club type living off a trust fund, ever.'
> 
> Warning for lesbophobic slur near the beginning.
> 
> Thanks to Clara for support & guidance. The title is after The Cure's [Lovesong](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ks_qOI0lzho), which is truly Grantaire's theme song in this fic. 
> 
> I'm still on [Tumblr](http://theo-decker.tumblr.com) if you wanna be pals.

Enjolras meets a girl called Grantaire at a student bar on the third week of her first year at university.

She’s there for a _reason_ , obviously. Enjolras doesn’t just go to bars. It’s an LGBT night, and she’s handing out flyers for a rally against homophobic street violence. She, Combeferre and Courfeyrac split up to cover more space, which seems like an obvious strategy until she’s standing alone in the middle of a crowded room.

Almost everyone here is already part of a tight-knit group. There’s a cuddle pile of gothy femmes with undercuts in one corner; a loud mixed group covered in glitter taking shots at the bar.

The only other person on her own is a short, broad-shouldered woman with her hair in a messy bun, leaning with her back to the bar. She looks fairly—Enjolras hates cavalier use of the word, but— _dykey_ , her Nike sports tank accentuating well-defined biceps, colourful tattoos winding their way down her forearms, a bored expression on her face and a pint of lager in her hand.

Enjolras takes a breath to steel herself, and approaches.

‘Hi,’ she says, bright campaigning voice on. ‘What’s your name?’

The woman blinks at her slowly as if waking from a dream. ‘…Grantaire,’ she says finally.

'Hi, Grantaire, I'm Enjolras. Will you be joining us at the Rally to Reclaim Our Streets on Saturday?' Enjolras holds out a flyer, smiling.

Grantaire accepts, brow furrowed. 'The Rally... to what, again?'

'To reclaim our streets,' Enjolras repeats. 'You might have heard about the recent case of Lucas Le Conte?'

Grantaire takes a sip of beer, still gazing at her in bemusement. ‘I haven’t, no. Tell me more?’

Enjolras launches into a saga: a young gay student assaulted by a group of frat boys on a night out, the university’s failure to enforce its newly established ‘No Tolerance’ policy, the lack of action by the police. Grantaire doesn’t stop her, so Enjolras gains momentum, voice getting louder and angrier until she concludes: 'The fact is, this institution profits from its reputation as a liberal haven, yet remains an unsafe space for its most marginalised students. The hypocrisy is astounding. If the university refuses to protect its own students, we have no choice but to take direct action.’

Her face is flushed by the time she catches her breath. It’s only then that Enjolras realises Grantaire’s eyes are glazed.

After a couple of seconds, Grantaire apparently realises she’s stopped talking, coughs and says, ‘Right, so what are we going to do about that, then?’

Enjolras drops her campaign schtick, scowling. ‘Never mind. You don’t care.’

‘No, no, I _do_ ,’ Grantaire insists, her eyes getting wide. ‘Well, okay, no, I don’t. But I like watching you talk. You’ve got a lot of—what do they call it? Gravitas? You’re like a goddess of war. I can just see you as a statue of Athena, all done in gold and ivory.’

Enjolras sighs, turns away. ‘Forget it.’

‘ _Hey_ ,’ Grantaire says, so forcefully Enjolras turns back despite herself. ‘I appreciate what you're doing, I really do. I mean it. I used to buy into that bullshit too. But this city is run by grown-up public schoolboys, and there’s fuck-all you can do to change it. You're not the first person who's tried. People like you, who actually _care_ about things, get crushed like ants in this place. I'm telling you this now as a favour.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ Enjolras grits out.

‘And don’t even bother with this lot,’ Grantaire says, gesturing to the crowds around them. ‘Everybody here’s just looking to get laid.’

Enjolras can’t manage more than a huff of disgust in response. She turns away, seething.

As luck would have it, Grantaire is right. Two hours and several rounds of the party later, most of her flyers have been repurposed as beer mats. She’s packing up her rucksack, getting ready to leave, when Grantaire appears.

 ‘Are you going?’

‘Yeah,’ Enjolras says, zipping her bag and straightening up. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘Come on,’ Grantaire says, voice low and cajoling. ‘At least stay for a drink.’

‘I don’t really like alcohol.’ Enjolras heads towards the exit without a backward glance.

Grantaire trails after her. ‘What do you like? Coffee? Iced tea? You know, they do pretty good nachos in here—‘

‘Thank you, but I’m really all right,’ Enjolras says, but then she stops and looks at Grantaire properly. She’s swaying on her feet, her eyes red-rimmed.

‘Are you… okay?’ Enjolras asks uncertainly.

Grantaire laughs. ‘I’m _fine_. But you should—you should come for a drink with me. Really, you should. I was so rude to you, I’m sorry, I want to make it up to you. You’re such a beautiful person. I know what that sounds like, whatever, but—you’re such a beautiful person, and you’re so good, and I wish I believed in all that stuff—I wish I believed like you do, about _anything_ —’

 _Shit_. ‘Hold on,’ Enjolras says, and grabs the jug of ice water from the bar, pours Grantaire a cupful.

Grantaire laughs again, and this time it sounds kind of broken. ‘Oh, God. You’re so nice,’ she says, and—fuck, _no_ , this cannot be happening, Enjolras is in _no way_ prepared to deal with this—her eyes start welling up. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine, I don’t need this. But you’re so nice, you’re so good. How are you real?’

‘Just drink it,’ Enjolras says, pulls out her phone, scrolls through her contacts for the nearest taxi service. ‘Hi,’ she tells the male voice on the line, ‘a taxi from Longridge Student Union as soon as possible, to—where is it you live, Grantaire?’

Grantaire makes a ‘gimme’ motion with her hand. Enjolras passes over the phone. She slurs a street name into the speaker before ending the call and handing it back.

‘Let’s wait outside,’ Enjolras says, injecting her voice with a note of command.

‘I’ve still got all this left,’ Grantaire complains, lifting her half-pint of beer in protest, but when Enjolras takes her arm, she shuts up and lets herself be steered to the door.

By the time they’re outside, she’s started sniffling again.

‘You must think I’m such an arsehole,’ she says, listing against Enjolras’ side. Enjolras tries her best to hold her up. ‘I’m so sorry. You’re so good. Mmm. Hey, you smell of eucalyptus.’

That startles a laugh from Enjolras. ‘Eucalyptus?’

‘Mmm, yeah,’ Grantaire says, nuzzling against her neck. Enjolras should find it irritating, probably. The girl reeks of cheap beer and she’s clinging to Enjolras like she wants to climb inside her skin, but she’s clearly a wreck. For the first time, Enjolras wonders why Grantaire came here alone.

The taxi arrives, and Grantaire totters across the pavement. ‘Goodnight, Enjolras,’ she calls. ‘My knight in shining armour!’

‘Night,’ Enjolras calls back, watches as the car drives off, and scrubs a hand over her face, blowing out a breath.

-

Enjolras encounters Grantaire just one other time during that first semester.

She’s facilitating a meeting at the Feminist Society, when, ten minutes in, Grantaire bursts through the door.

‘Sorry I’m late, I—’

Grantaire freezes, her eyes wide on Enjolras’.

‘Fuck,’ she stammers, ‘sorry, I…’

She turns on her heel, and leaves. The sound of her hurried footsteps echo in the hall.

 _How strange_ , Enjolras thinks, then resumes the meeting. She doesn’t think of Grantaire again.

-

It feels as though it takes an age for Enjolras to find her friends at university, although whenever she mentions this, she’s firmly informed that compared to 90% of the student population, it’s a remarkably short period of time.

She meets Courfeyrac (loud, gossipy, but infinitely kind) and Combeferre (wise, yet passionate and quietly assertive) towards the end of Week 1 at a Freshers’ Fair, and all but moves into the flat they share with their high-strung roommate, Marie. After a series of sunlit September afternoons sipping tea on their couch, trading books with Combeferre and listening to Courfeyrac’s riot grrl Spotify mixes, arguing the finer points of anarchist ideology with Combeferre and allowing Courfeyrac to paint her nails, they’ve basically forged a three-way soul bond.

For the first few weeks, they attend Feminist Society together, but soon tire of events such as ‘Why does feminism matter?’, ‘Women in the Workplace’, and ‘Feminism and Body Image’, the content of which Combeferre diplomatically describes as ‘entry-level’, and Enjolras describes as ‘inane, twee, bourgeois liberal-feminist drivel’. Together, they form a splinter-group, the ABC: an anarcha-feminist protest organisation aiming to change sexist, elitist, classist, racist culture on their university campus and beyond.

At first, it’s just the three of them. Then word gets out, and students from all different spheres become involved. The leader of the university staff union, Feuilly, even attends their meetings. On campus, people know Enjolras’ name. The student papers write about the ABC as if they’re something to be feared.

That’s how Enjolras knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

-

The concept Courfeyrac calls ‘Feminist Fight Club’ comes about towards the end of the semester. They’re having coffee at the Musain after an ABC meeting, and Bahorel, the ABC’s resident female bodybuilder, is, as usual, complaining about the men in the gym.

'I've got my earphones in, I'm not making eye contact, I'm trying to do my thing, but I swear to you, they actually come up and tap you on the shoulder just to give you useless advice on your form. I've been going to this gym five times a week for the four years I've been at college, I've been doing lifting and boxing for another six years before that, and these fucking weedy teenagers are still coming up to me and trying to inform me how to execute a deadlift? Like, do you _want_ me to kick your fucking head in?'

'Oh my God,' Éponine groans sympathetically. 'And the way they eye you from across the room and try to make sure they're lifting twice as much as you, and make these loud grunts to get your attention—'

'—and then they manage about one fucking rep before collapsing because their frail fucking ego couldn't handle the possibility a woman might be stronger than them,' Bahorel spits, words tinged with vicious satisfaction.

'I never got past my induction at the gym,' Cosette—Marie’s girlfriend—offers quietly. 'They assigned me a male trainer to show me the ropes, and he kept, kind of, touching me unnecessarily while showing me what to do? Like pulling my shoulders back into place to correct my posture, and putting his hand on my lower back, even when I asked him not to, and like standing pressed up behind me. Never went back.'

A short silence follows.

‘You never told me that,’ Marie says, blinking fast.

Enjolras finds herself sitting bolt upright, suddenly electrified with rage.

‘That is _disgusting_ ,’ she says. ‘That is _abhorrent_. Did you catch his name? Is he still with the university gym? Could we contact a welfare officer about this?’

'I'd rather just forget it ever happened,' Cosette mumbles to the floor.

'Hey,' says Combeferre, low, reaching over the table. Cosette accepts a quick squeeze of her hand. 'What Enjolras means is we're sorry it _did_ happen. No one should have to deal with that.’

‘Yeah, sorry about this one,’ Courfeyrac said wryly. ‘Angry yelling is the only way Enjolras knows how to show she cares.’

Enjolras glares at Courfeyrac, who blows a kiss back.

‘Ideally, we'd have facilities for women only,’ Bahorel says thoughtfully. ‘Maybe we could push for some more women's groups? Fitness classes?’

'Women _and_ nonbinary,’ Jehan notes.

'Facilities for non-men only,' Bahorel agrees.

So it happens that the ABC brings the idea of women-only fitness classes to the student council, and several weeks later, after many passionate speeches, petitions, and hundred-comment-strong Facebook threads in which they are accused of misandry, the student union generously allots one (1) hour a week for a women's self-defence group in a disused room of the campus gym. The class is to be run by one of Bahorel's friends, R, who Bahorel describes as ‘definitely a legit boxing instructor, she’s qualified, I’ve seen the certificate and everything,’ but about whom she doesn't venture any further information.

Enjolras is 80% sure the whole thing is going to be an abject embarrassment, but she concedes it’s a good idea, and helps stick up the posters: FEMINIST FIGHT CLUB/BOXING 101/ALL SELF-IDENTIFYING WOMEN & NB PPL WELCOME, emblazoned over a pink and black anarchist flag.

‘Come _on_ ,’ Courfeyrac wheedles. ‘Just think. A room full of girls who look just like Ronda Rousey who could choke you to death without breaking a sweat.’

‘Oh, God,’ Enjolras says, nauseated. ‘That is so much more than I needed to know about your sexual preferences.’

‘En-jol- _ras_ ,’ Courfeyrac whines.

Enjolras groans. ‘Okay. Fine, I’ll come with you. Jesus.’

Courfeyrac punches the air in triumph.

-

She feels, if possible, even more apprehensive about the prospect of Feminist Fight Club by the time the first class rolls around in January. The studio is in the university gym’s (unheated) basement. Enjolras’ teeth are chattering as she and Courfeyrac hover outside the entrance.

They’re first to arrive, but it’s not long before Bahorel joins them, and with her, a crowd of girls in roller derby shirts with jewel-toned hair; then comes Feuilly, and Éponine with her sister, Azelma. Everyone’s in tank tops and capris, with slick high ponytails and hi-tech looking water bottles. Glancing down at her own scruffy ink-stained t-shirt and baggy old gym shorts, Enjolras wonders if she ought to have taken this more seriously.

'Are we early?' one of the roller derby girls asks.

'No, R's just late,' Bahorel says cheerfully.

Enjolras scowls. 'The room's only booked for an hour.'

'Yeah, but that's arbitrary. When do they ever use this room for anything?'

'Fear not, I have arrived!' comes a loud, theatrical voice; then, a clattering, and none other than the girl from the bar all those weeks ago appears at the top of the stairs.

R. _Grant_ aire.

Of course, Enjolras thinks, tiredly.

Grantaire’s in head-to-toe black Lycra that clings to every contour of her body, hair pulled back severely, a bunch of keys and a whistle around her neck. She looks— _good_ , her eyes sharp, skin bright and clear; so good Enjolras wonders if she remembers that night correctly.

She’s grinning, and the other girls cheer her in greeting as she hops down and unlocks the studio door, flicks the lights on.

The group trickles in after her.

The studio is modest-sized, with a mirror along one wall, unpolished wooden floorboards, a bench, a pile of mats. Grantaire dumps her bag on the floor, begins fiddling with her iPod and speaker. In a couple of minutes, the opening chords of ‘Oh Bondage! Up Yours!’ are reverberating against the studio walls.

‘Alright,’ Grantaire bellows. ‘The first rule of Feminist Fight Club is we do not talk about Feminist Fight Club.’

This produces several groans.

‘Sorry, I had to,’ says Grantaire, shrugging. ‘Okay, the _actual_ first rule of Feminist Fight Club is please inform me if you have any injuries, and remember to take easier options during circuits if you need to. If something feels wrong, don’t do it. Come to me if there’s anything you’re not sure about. Okay?

When Grantaire’s eyes sweep the room then, Enjolras thinks they catch on her for a moment or two, but it’s possible she’s imagining it.

‘Are you ready? Let’s start with a jog, one, two, three—’

The class begins with an intense circuit—sprinting, burpees, squat thrusts, jumping jacks. It’s pure, unrelenting agony. Enjolras' lungs are burning, her legs weak, sweat pouring off her forehead by the time Grantaire calls for a rest.

‘Pair up, it’s time to practise our combos!’ Grantaire hollers.

Enjolras looks for Courfeyrac, but Courfeyrac, the filthy traitor, has attached herself to the side of one of the roller derby girls. She mouths _Sorry_!, and gives a shrug, not looking penitent at all. Bahorel and Feuilly partner up; so do Éponine and her sister.

She looks around desperately. The rest of the girls edge away from her as if she’s contaminated. Catching sight of herself in the mirror—crimson face, sweat-soaked shirt—she can see why.

It’s like fourth year PE all over again.

‘Enjolras, you can partner with me,’ Grantaire says, finally taking pity on her.

‘Thanks,’ Enjolras mumbles. Her face gets even hotter. Before she thinks twice, she blurts out, ‘I wasn’t sure if you remembered who I was.’

‘Hah! Would that I could forget.’ Grantaire’s mouth twists. ‘Sorry about that night. I don’t really drink anymore. Turns out I’m one of those people who can’t have one sip of wine without tripping a switch in my brain and drinking ‘til I’m—well, you saw it. Completely wrecked.’

Enjolras concedes the point with a nod. ‘It’s fine. You weren’t that bad.’

‘Don’t,’ Grantaire groans. ‘I really was. Pads are in the cupboard, by the way.’

Enjolras goes to fetch them obediently, then returns to Grantaire’s side. Grantaire turns back to the rest of the class.

‘Alright, listen up. For those of us who have never done boxing before, I'm going to go through some basics with you. First of all, and most important, you have to keep your guard up—like this.'

Grantaire’s whole posture changes. Her stance is wide, legs bent; her curled fists are raised, one shoulder dropped. Enjolras can't pinpoint what it is, but the shift makes her look suddenly dangerous. She's a coiled spring, a cat ready to pounce.

Inexplicably, Enjolras' mouth goes dry.

'Today we're going to practice some very basic combos. Enjolras will be my lovely assistant helping me demonstrate tonight,' she says, and holds the boxing pads out.

'You need to slip your hands into these straps here,' she says to Enjolras under her breath.

Enjolras fumbles with the second pad.

'Here,' Grantaire says, 'can I?'—and she takes Enjolras' hand gently, and slips it into the strap.

Enjolras swallows, and tries not to wonder why that careful brush of contact seems to be sending off all kinds of alarm signals in her body, her heart racing.

‘So let's start out with this combo.’ Grantaire demonstrates in slow motion, barely bumping her fists against Enjolras' pads. ‘Jab. Cross. Right upper hook.’ She signals for Enjolras to flip the pad down; Enjolras does so. ‘Cross, again. It should look like this.’

Enjolras isn't ready for it at all when Grantaire slams her fist into the pad with so much force Enjolras teeters backwards.

‘Jab, cross, upper hook, cross,’ Grantaire chants, and batters Enjolras' pads over and over.

The hits are _so_ hard. Grantaire is _strong_. Obviously, Enjolras knows you have to be strong to be a boxer, but it's another thing actually feeling the weight of the blows. Grantaire is smaller and shorter than her, but each jab is explosive, nearly knocking her off her feet.

'Turn to your partner and practice. I'll tell you when it's time to switch places. Enjolras? We'll switch?'

Enjolras pulls off the pads; Grantaire hands her the gloves.

'Guard up,' Grantaire reminds her. 'Higher than that. Keep your elbows tucked in. Otherwise, if we were really fighting, I could whack you right in the ribs.'

'Okay,' Enjolras says, biting her lip. She tries to copy Grantaire's stance from before.

'Not bad. Tuck your chin in and bend your knees. You're going to want to stay low. Do you remember the combination?'

'Jab, cross,' Enjolras recites, throwing each punch slowly, like Grantaire had at first. 'Upper, cross.'

‘Good,’ Grantaire says. ‘Speed it up.’

She tries. She _really_ tries, screwing her face up and launching herself forward, but the hardest punch she can throw barely impacts the pad, and her arms start aching after about twenty seconds. Grantaire is nodding and smiling, giving her soft encouragements, _keep going, that's it_ , and, god, it’s like she’s trying to rub it in her face that this is the best she can do, and it’s absolute shit.

Enjolras experiences the urge to beat conservatives, misogynists, homophobes and more to a bloody pulp several hundreds of times a day, and she's now realising even if she did have the opportunity, she _wouldn't be able to do it._

'Time to switch!' Grantaire calls, and Enjolras swaps gloves for pads once again, braces herself.

This time, Grantaire holds nothing back—she _had_ been holding back, Enjolras realises. Grantaire is suddenly a tiny, ferocious hurricane, a whirl of energy, noise and violence. Enjolras just watches and tries to stay still, keep her pads up as Grantaire works herself into a sweat. Her eyes are sharp, focused and intense; she grunts with each blow she lands; her hair starts coming down from its bun. It's—incredible, objectively, the sheer power contained in Grantaire's small frame, but. That doesn't explain how helpless Enjolras feels, suddenly.

She bites the inside of her cheek. For some horrible, horrible reason she remembers what Courfeyrac had said about hot girls strong enough to strangle you to death. She wishes she could bleach that remark from her brain.

-

‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Courfeyrac coos on the walk home.

‘That,’ Enjolras says darkly, ‘was a living nightmare, which I can’t believe you, a supposed friend and comrade, would abandon me to suffer through alone.’

‘Oh, don’t be like that!’ Courfeyrac pulls her in and places a kiss on her cheek. Enjolras tries to shove her in return, but since her already (apparently) weak arms are exhausted, she doesn’t move Courfeyrac an inch. ‘Grantaire took good care of you, didn’t she?’ Courfeyrac goes on, waggling her eyebrows.

‘Don’t fucking test me,’ Enjolras snaps.

Wisely, Courfeyrac drops the subject.

-

There’s an ABC meeting the next day. Enjolras' shoulders ache fiercely and her body feels somehow heavier all over. No amount of coffee will get rid of her bone-deep grogginess. In short: she's fucking cranky, and the fact that at five past four pm she and Combeferre are still the only ones in the meeting room of the Musain is in no way helping.

'This was supposed to be an _urgent_ meeting.' Enjolras gets up, starts pacing, to get her blood circulating as much as anything else. 'We have a limited amount of time in which to take action, and there isn't _time_ for—for flakiness, for messing around. This isn't a _game_.'

'I know that, you don't have to tell me,' Combeferre reminds her gently. She's sitting in a chair, legs crossed at the ankles, tapping away at her phone. Enjolras doesn't understand how she can be so relaxed. ‘Courf says they’re on their way over now from the Corinthe.’

Enjolras groans. 'Great. So they're all going to be drunk.’

'I don't know. Courf’s texts are all reasonably legible, which is a rarity even when she _is_ sober.’

'Tell them to hurry _up_.'

'Done,' Combeferre says, stowing her phone away. 'Are you all right? You seem a bit, um. Heightened.'

'Of course I'm all right!' Enjolras snaps. 'I'm just irritated. I'm well within my rights to be irritated, aren't I?'

Combeferre holds her hands up, like:  _never said you weren’t_.

At the sound of Courfeyrac's tell-tale loud, ringing laughter echoing from the front room, Enjolras breathes a sigh of relief—a feeling which evaporates quickly when the door swings open and the group of regular members that pours into the meeting room includes none other than Grantaire, in jeans and a plaid shirt, her tattoos peeking out from the bottom of the rolled up sleeves. Her hair is loose; Enjolras has never seen it so before, a messy cluster of dark curls clinging to the long arc of her neck.

Enjolras doesn't know why she keeps noticing these things. She wishes she wouldn't.

'We ran into R at lunch,' Courfeyrac explains. 'I told her nobody would mind if she stayed for the meeting. You don't, do you?'

'No,' Enjolras says, through gritted teeth. 'Of course not. Welcome to the ABC, Grantaire.'

Grantaire grins sunnily, drops into a chair, slouching.

'Okay, we've got a lot on the agenda tonight,' Enjolras says, raising her voice to be heard over the sounds of chatter and people moving chairs around. 'So if you don't mind, 'Ferre and I are just going to get straight into it.'

Combeferre opens her laptop. 'Alright, the first item is our ongoing lobbying for greater funding for student support and health services, particularly for disabled and mentally ill students. Joly, Jehan, where did you get on that?'

Joly outlines the actions they’ve taken—petitions, emails to staff—and the response they’ve received from the university. ‘Professors Myriel and Lamarque both said they were in favour of greater support for struggling students and wished us luck on our campaign, but that's, you know. Two people.’ She smiles hollowly.

'Two people isn't nothing,' Enjolras says fiercely. 'Lamarque is a prominent voice in the union. Getting him on our side is a major win.'

Grantaire snorts. Enjolras can't help it; her eyes flash over to where she's sitting. She looks as if she's suppressing laughter.

Enjolras tries not to succumb to the spark of fury that ignites within her.

‘We had another idea,’ Jehan speaks up shyly. ‘An Internet campaign? Joly’s story is a really powerful one. I think it’s a narrative people would respond to.’

‘We could use the way the university has treated me, denying me accommodations and forcing me to drop out twice, as an example of the lack of understanding around illnesses like OCD,’ Joly clarifies.

‘You’d be circulating a lot of personal information about your health,’ Enjolras says slowly.

Joly shrugs. ‘This institution treated me like shit. I’m happy to go down if I get to drag the university’s name through the mud with me.’

'You're making a mista-ake,' Grantaire says, singsong.

Enjolras bites the inside of her cheek hard, breathes through her irritation.

‘Yes, Grantaire?'

'Do you realise that the university just blew £100,000 on a ten-foot marble equestrian sculpture for the middle of the campus square? That’s true, by the way; it was in the news last Tuesday. Just a giant great fucking horse, for no reason, in the middle of our university campus, because the principal fancies it. This institution knows what it could do to improve its services, to be more inclusive, and to help its students. But it _doesn't care_. The general council's priority is preserving the university's reputation as one of the oldest elite schools in all of Europe, and _that's_ where all the money is going. Making the school more accessible is directly contrary to the image the university wants to put out there. Don't you see? The more competitive, tough and exclusive this place looks, the more it appeals to rich, conservative parents as a place to send their kids, the more money the university makes. Nothing we can do will change that. Just because a couple of staff were nice enough to encourage you doesn't mean you have a single chance—and honestly, it's a cool idea and everything, but it's not worth putting Joly's name and personal information out on the Internet for a lost cause.’ Grantaire draws breath.

Enjolras remembers the first time they met. _People who care about things get crushed like ants._

'I recognise your point,' says Enjolras, forcing gentleness, 'but I disagree. We don't have to limit ourselves to campaigning within the university network. We could take this to the national press. We could frame this as a systematic issue within our country's education system. There are things we can do that go beyond just asking the higher-ups nicely, Grantaire. I think the idea has potential.

'Besides, personally, I would rather we tried and failed than did nothing about this issue that affects members of our group—my _friends_ ,' and she can't help but let just a little of her incredulous anger seep into her tone, then.

It's sweet, smiling, high-strung _Joly_. It's her fucking _friends_.

'I can't just let this slide.'

Grantaire gives an exaggerated, sardonic shrug.

The meeting goes on as if Grantaire never interrupted, though Enjolras keeps finding her gaze wandering over to Grantaire’s seat. Grantaire slinks further and further into the chair, looking close to falling asleep. Enjolras resists the urge to snap her fingers in front of Grantaire's face.

It's not as if Grantaire's the first person she's ever met who doesn't care about social justice. Enjolras is an experienced campaigner, well aware that about eighty percent of the population is sunk deep in jaded apathy. She doesn't know why Grantaire's eye-rolling has got under her skin—why she _wants_ her to care.

They're not even friends. She's a _boxing instructor_.

-

'Enjolras,' Grantaire says on the way out of the meeting room, and catches Enjolras' arm lightly. Enjolras startles.

'Yeah?'

'Are you staying for drinks?'

'Erm.' She checks her watch. It's six. She's got a political science essay deadline due in next week, and hasn't done any of the reading. 'I think I'm heading home.'

'Okay,' says Grantaire agreeably. 'So will I. Do you want to walk with me?'

Enjolras looks at her curiously. ‘All right?'

Grantaire hums. As they leave the Musain and walk across the square, she lights a cigarette.

'Isn't that bad for your boxing?' Enjolras blurts.

'Hmm? Oh.' Grantaire blows out smoke. 'Yeah. I've quit a few times. I'm thinking of switching to one of those vape things, just to save my lungs, but honestly, I don't know if I can deal with how stupid I'd look with one of those hanging out of my mouth.'

'Right,' says Enjolras, unsure how to respond.

'Good meeting, by the way,' says Grantaire. 'You're really cute, all of you. All those big ideas for change.'

Enjolras wants to object to the diminutive term, but there's a note of genuine wistfulness in Grantaire's voice.

'Thanks,' Enjolras says cautiously.

'I mean, I can't say I believe you're going to do more than get yourselves arrested and fuck up your future chances of employment. But it's nice, in a way, that there are people out there who are still fighting for something.'

'How come _you_ don't want to fight?' Enjolras can't help but ask, glancing at Grantaire out of the corner of her eye.

Grantaire's smile is sad. She recites: '"Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, / The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere / The ceremony of innocence is drowned; / The best lack all conviction, while the worst / Are full of passionate intensity."'

'What's that?'

'YB Yeats. Irish Romantic poet. That’s his most famous poem.' She takes another drag from her cigarette. 'He believed history comes in cycles, centuries-long. That we move through phases of civilisation and phases of anarchy, and that everything is doomed to repeat itself.'

'And you agree?'

'I don't know,' Grantaire says lightly. 'But I feel like I get where he was coming from. I turn left here.'

'I turn right.'

'Well.' Grantaire drops her cigarette stub and crushes it underfoot. 'I suppose I'll see you later then.'

'Yeah,' Enjolras says, faintly. 'See you.'

After they part, she looks over her shoulder, twice, at Grantaire's retreating back.

-

Enjolras would never admit it, but she starts practicing push-ups alone in her apartment. In front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, she puts her guard up just like Grantaire taught her, practises throwing a punch, jabbing hard with a rotation of her fist. When she gets stuck on a paragraph of her essay, tangled up in the thread of her own argument, her head numb, she gets up from her desk, stretches, and launches into a series of jumping jacks.

She's aware she looks ridiculous, but by the time she’s raised her heart rate, there's sensation pulsing in her body again, she's awake and re-energised, and when she settles back down, she picks up where she left off with ease.

-

'So I'm assuming I'm taking you to boxing again tonight,' Enjolras says, trying to sound as unenthusiastic about the prospect as possible.

She, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are tucked into a booth in the library cafe, scarfing sandwiches and coffee over piles of books.

Courfeyrac grins, fluttering her eyelashes. 'Well, _if_ you insist. I did tell Floréal I'd see her later.'

'Who's Floréal?' Combeferre asks, not looking up from her laptop.

'Courfeyrac's new beau slash sparring partner,' Enjolras fills her in.

Courfeyrac sighs. 'God, I know it's shallow, but she's just. So attractive? She's got this grungy, 90s, pop punk, riot grrl vibe. Like, she makes zines and little button badges and jewellery and sells them all on Etsy. _And_ she volunteers for the LGBT group at the youth cafe.'

'She sounds great,' Combeferre says. Something in her voice is a little too controlled, but when Enjolras looks up, her expression hasn't changed.

'Yeah,' Courfeyrac says dreamily. 'Anyway, we've been texting a lot. I think she likes me, but she's shy, so I'll see what happens tonight.'

'Right,' Combeferre says, and then starts. 'Enjolras. Have you seen this?'

'Hmm?' Enjolras responds, through a mouthful of falafel.

Combeferre turns the laptop around to face her. The university paper's blog headline reads: SIR THÉNARDIER ELECTED UNIVERSITY CHANCELLOR BY GENERAL COUNCIL.

'What,' Enjolras says, and puts down her sandwich.

_In a controversial move, the university's council has elected Sir Thénardier, former chairman of oil and gas company Centrad, now the knighted director of the National Confederation of Business, as Chancellor._

‘Thénardier,’ Enjolras says slowly. The name is familiar. ‘Isn’t that—?’

‘Éponine’s estranged father,’ Combeferre finishes grimly.

_Vice Chancellor and Principal, Sir Gillenormand, said: 'I am thrilled with the decision of our council to elect a Chancellor who truly embodies this institution's values. I warmly welcome Sir Thénardier to our university, and wish him all the best of luck in his new role.'_

_Thénardier is renowned for not only being one of the top 50 wealthiest people in the UK, but for his outspoken stance against immigration and the European Union._

'Fuck,' Enjolras says, staring at the screen. ' _Fuck_. Why didn't anyone know about this when it was happening? Why didn't _we_ know about it?'

Combeferre shakes her head. 'They probably knew it wouldn't be popular with the student body.'

'Let me see,' Courfeyrac demands. Enjolras watches her face change from shock to deep disgust.

'Wow,' she says, finally.

'The inauguration isn't for another couple of months,' says Combeferre. 'We've got time to fight this.'

'Call an emergency meeting for Saturday,' Enjolras says. She's almost vibrating with energy. 'Put it in the group chat. Tell everyone to come as soon as they can make it. Make sure Éponine’s there. We’ve got to get the word out that this is happening, right now, under our noses. We’ve got to let people know that there has been an election for an unapologetically racist and violent candidate as our university representative that was so undemocratic _we weren’t even told about it_.’ She runs a hand through her hair wildly. ‘There’s got to be something we can do about this.’

Courfeyrac's already got her phone out. 'I'll let them know,' she says. 'And I'll see who else we can get. I'm pretty sure it's not just the ABC who will want to protest this.'

'I'm reposting the article in all my Facebook groups,' Combeferre says. 'And looking up old tweets, and receipts of his misogynistic and homophobic comments from the past so I can put them together in a blog.'

'Good,' says Enjolras. 'I want you to torch that fucking insect.'

-

Enjolras is soaked in sweat and gasping and her arms are jelly but she pushes through the fatigue, puts her whole body into every blow.

'Better,' Grantaire says, sounding a little amazed, ' _so_ much better, god, Athena, what happened to you?'

Enjolras can't catch a breath to get the words out, so she doesn't bother, just grunts and slams the pad in another upper-cut so violent she feels her back and shoulders scream out for mercy.

'Thirty seconds left,' Grantaire calls to the class at large, and then she says, quieter, to Enjolras. 'Come on, babe. Keep going. Push through it. If you feel it burning, that just means you're getting stronger.'

Enjolras does, even though it hurts so much she almost feels like crying, even though merely holding her fists aloft feels like intense exertion. She breathes through it, goes as hard and as fast as she can, until she's barely aware of her surroundings, only able to focus on the repetitions, making her blows connect. Her vision is swimming.

'And... time up!'

Enjolras stumbles back, taking deep, shuddering breaths. She grabs her water bottle, and takes several long gulps.

'Are you okay?' Grantaire asks. 'Do you need a rest?'

She shakes her head. 'I'm alright,' she manages, when she recovers her voice.

Grantaire's still watching her closely, a crease of concern between her brows. 'Excellent energy,' she says. 'It's good to see you push yourself like that. That's the way you build stamina. But listen to your body as well, okay? You don't want to cause yourself an injury.'

'Yeah,' Enjolras says, barely listening.

'Here, stretch.' She raises her voice. 'Alright, everyone, take a minute to ease off your muscles!'

Enjolras copies Grantaire as she stretches her shoulders, biceps and triceps, loosens off. Her head is too full of white noise to have room for thought; she doesn't have the energy to be angry anymore. She limply follows Grantaire's instructions, blissed out on exhaustion. She can't even chastise herself—much, anyway—for the way her eyes wander down to Grantaire's collarbone, glistening with sweat, to her broad, strong shoulders, to her tattooed biceps; down to her lightly defined abs under her crop top.

She's allowed to admire the obvious work Grantaire has done to build her muscles and take care of her body, right? Grantaire is an _athlete_.

She drifts out of the studio at the end of the class, only half-hearing Courfeyrac's prattle about where she's taking Flor _é_ al on Friday night—‘Meeting on Saturday,' she remembers to say, belatedly, ‘don't be hungover’—and when the cool evening air hits, she breathes it in gratefully, tilting her head up to the sky. It's a clear night. The stars are out.

Fuck the university. Fuck Thénardier. They don't know who they're dealing with. Enjolras is young and strong and full of rage and infinite conviction. Enjolras has something real to fight for, and not just allies, but true friends fighting by her side. She's inexorable; she's the wind and the sea. She's a warrior. Like Grantaire says, she's a goddess.

They're going to win this.

-

By the time the rest of the ABC traipse in, bleary-eyed, on Saturday morning, Enjolras is on her third double-shot americano, plus the guarana smoothie she had for breakfast. She's covered most of one wall of the Musain back room in white poster paper, and is scrawling campaign ideas over it in brightly coloured permanent marker.

'Shit,' Bahorel says, stopping dead a few feet from the doorway. 'What is this?'

'I'm brainstorming,' Enjolras says briskly. 'We need find ways to protest Thénardier’s inauguration as Chancellor, and if possible, prevent it from happening at all. Combeferre, do you want to fill them in?'

'Give me a minute, Enjolras,' Combeferre says through a yawn, and takes a seat, unpacking her laptop.

Grantaire is here, Enjolras registers, then looks away, deliberately. That's not so strange. She'd been to one meeting; she'd said she liked it. There's no reason for her to _not_ be here. There’s no reason for Enjolras to be on edge, for Grantaire's presence to be a prickling agitation. ~~~~

She's being irrational.

The group are settling in. Jehan's wrapped themself in a shawl, is sitting cross-legged on their chair, clutching a cup of tea with both hands; Bossuet, in the corner, appears to be nodding off and jerking awake every few minutes; Cosette and Marie are sharing a flask of coffee. The only person who seems alert is Éponine, who’s sitting at the back, a couple of paces removed from everyone else, her posture tense, eyes sharp. Enjolras gives her a tiny nod. She nods back.

'Okay,' Combeferre says. 'As you know, Thénardier has been elected Chancellor of this university. The role is symbolic and largely meaningless, but is intended to convey a particular message about what kind of institution this is. And from the principal's comments on the matter, it seems that the message he wishes to convey is that this institution is a racist and exclusionary one.

'As a lot of you have seen, I've written about this on my blog and tweeted to various members of university staff, and it's gained a bit of attention, but not enough to create a real impact—'

'We need to get the student welfare officers involved,' Enjolras says, interrupting in her haste. 'We need to propose a student council motion to release a general statement that we do not condone the general council's decision, and from there, we need to organise and agitate. We need it in writing that we reject Thénardier, but we also need to do work on the ground to make sure that our message doesn't go unheard. We need to be loud and vocal about the fact that this man is a fucking _fascist_ who _does not represent us_.'

'Um,' comes Grantaire's voice, and Enjolras whips around so fast her neck cracks.

'Obviously Thénardier is a really evil man with a terrible reputation,’ Grantaire begins. ‘I'm not disputing that. I just wonder—you know, purely as an unbiased observer—if this is where the group should be expending its energy and resources? Like, what are we—you— _actually_ going to achieve? You're going to let people know you don't agree with horrible xenophobes, sure, fair enough, but Thénardier is still going to end up being Chancellor. He's still going to represent this university, and the university is still going to remain an unwelcoming environment for marginalised groups, the way it always has been, except this year it'll be a bit more blatant than usual. I'm not saying you shouldn't protest this, but it seems like Combeferre's doing her bit already. Couldn't you focus on something more concrete? Wouldn't it be better if you, like, spent your time volunteering at foodbanks, or something?'

'What makes you think we can't do both?' Enjolras shoots back. 'Do you think I've never volunteered at foodbanks, and prisons, and homeless shelters, and addiction centres? What do you think I do on my summers off? We don't have to pick one single issue to care about, Grantaire. There's work to be done everywhere.

'Think about the different ways it could go. We take your suggestion, and do nothing, apart from circulating a few blogs which go mostly unread. Thénardier is inaugurated without fanfare. There's no press apart from a page or two in the student paper. Maybe it's added as an afterthought in the local news, if it's a slow day. Students of the university come and go, barely aware that their educational institution is run by a bunch of conservatives and racists, and officially lead by the biggest conservative and racist in the _entire country_. Fees continue to climb higher, and become more and more prohibitive for working class students; international students receive no support for their visas. No one cares.

'On the other hand, we could take this opportunity to campaign hard. We raise awareness; we demonstrate. In the best case scenario, maybe Thénardier doesn't even get inaugurated. More likely, though, we'll draw attention to the lack of democracy inherent in the process of electing a chancellor. Maybe nothing— _concrete_ —happens, but we get press. We get outrage. A narrative emerges: conservative university officials out of touch with the student body. People will remember that people were angry. There were people who came out to protest, to say that we welcome our international students, our immigrant students, our working-class students. We want them here. We want bigots out. Not everyone will sympathise with us, but everyone will know about us. Not everyone will care, but _some will_.

'That, alone, is worth something.’

Enjolras finally draws breath. She'd been addressing the room at large, but now her eyes fall on Grantaire. Grantaire’s gazing back at her, expression unreadable.

The rest of the ABC are alert now, as if Enjolras' energy has awoken them with an electric shock.

Courfeyrac's sitting up straight. 'Okay,' she says. 'So what's the groundwork we need to do?'

Enjolras smiles.

-

‘Hi,’ Enjolras says, and Éponine looks up sharply from where she’s packing her books and folders into her satchel.

‘No,’ she says. Her voice is flat. ‘ _No_ , I’m not going to make a public statement about any of the shit my dad did to me before he fucked off and became a billionaire con artist. No fucking way.’

‘You could ruin him,’ Enjolras presses, gently.

‘It’d ruin _me_ ,’ Éponine counters. ‘Not only that, it’d ruin my family. Gavroche and Azelma, they don’t need to hear about that shit all over again.’

Enjolras nods. ‘Okay. If you’re sure.’

‘I’m sure.’ She slings the satchel over her shoulder, straightens up, then looks Enjolras straight in the eye. ‘Promise me, though. Promise me you’ll fuck him up bad.’

Enjolras meets her gaze. Her heart feels like it’s bursting.

‘I _promise_ ,’ she says viciously. ‘I am going to do everything I can to take this fucker down.’

-

It’s dusk. The ABC are standing outside the student union, each of them carrying backpacks loaded with chalks, spray paints, glitter, and virtually anything that makes a mess.

'Don't spend more than an hour on this,' Enjolras advises. 'It doesn’t need to be a work of art. Just do what you need to do and get out. I'll meet you at the Corinthe at eleven o'clock, alright?'

Courfeyrac's grinning, eyes shining under the street lights in the darkness. 'You're making this sound so much more badass than it really is.'

Enjolras rolls her eyes, doesn't respond. 'If you run into police or security, just drop everything and leave. We can come back later. Has everyone got supplies?'

Nods, murmurs, a chorus of ‘yeahs’.

'Okay, comrades, I'll see you later.’

'It's so bizarre hearing someone non-ironically call their friends "comrades" in the year of Our Lord 2016,' Grantaire remarks.

'Shut the fuck up,' Enjolras says mildly, and sets off down into the underpass.

She kneels on the concrete, pulls out her chalks.

There's something soothing about drawing the letters on the blocks, colouring them in; it reminds her of being eight years old, drawing hopscotch courts on the school playground. She's vaguely aware of the distant sound of passing cars, and the _ssshhhhhh_ of Grantaire's spray-paint across the courtyard, but her focus is narrowed to the chalk patterns blooming from underneath her fingertips.

FASCISTS OUT!

¡NO PASARÁN!

She writes the URL of Combeferre's blog underneath, moves on.

Next, she decorates a wall of the mathematics building, and the ground in front of the library; then, draws in the centre of the square. She knows where the cameras are, avoids them, or makes sure her hood’s up and back turned when doing so isn’t possible, and glances around periodically; but for a Saturday night, the campus is deserted, security scarce.

When she’s done, she heads straight to the Corinthe, not waiting up for the rest of her group. Feuilly’s already there, standing at the entrance, chain-smoking roll-ups.

'How much did you cover?' Enjolras asks in an undertone.

Feuilly grins. 'Shit-tons. I got the literature building and the business school.’

'Good,' Enjolras says. She takes a deep breath. The blood is still rushing in her veins, body alight with adrenaline. 'If nothing else, it'll pique people's curiosity. They'll realise that something's going on. And as for the university officials—’ She can’t help but crack a smile, and Feuilly joins her, breaking into helpless giggles.

Slowly, the rest start to arrive, Courfeyrac laughing and bragging a little too loudly about breaking into a first-year hostel and decorating the walls with anti-fascist Sharpie art. Grantaire, when she appears, is breathless. She's covered in paint—red and gold, from her hands, to her white t-shirt, to the smudges on the side of her neck. She's grinning wickedly, and, god, she looks—

Enjolras swallows and turns her gaze away.

'I don't know about the rest of you,' says Bahorel loudly. 'But I'm getting a drink.’

Enjolras honestly just wants to go home and find some more dirt on Thénardier, but when she expresses this, Courfeyrac boos, elbows in her ribs and calls her a bore.

‘ _Please_ stay, Enjolras,’ Cosette says, wide-eyed, ‘I’ve got this thing I needed to ask you about for my critical theory class,' and Enjolras finally gives in and allows herself to be bullied into going into the bar.

‘A hot chocolate, please?’

The bartender raises his eyebrows at her incredulously, then replies, ‘Sure. Hold on a second and I’ll get it for you.’

'Nothing more annoying than a customer who orders hot drinks after nine pm,’ comes Grantaire’s voice, and Enjolras starts to find her standing next to her.

Enjolras winces. 'Shit. Should I tell him it doesn't matter? I could get something else—’

Grantaire laughs. 'Awww. You're fine. He’s a grown-up, I'm sure he can handle it.’

'What did you get?'

'Soda and lime,' Grantaire supplies, raising her glass.

Enjolras can't help but screw up her face. ' _Why_?'

'Well, the bitter taste stops me craving booze.' She shrugs. 'Plus it looks vaguely like it might be alcoholic, so nobody's going to harass me for not drinking.'

'None of us would harass you anyway,' Enjolras says.

Grantaire's smile goes soft. 'I know you wouldn't.'

Enjolras can't help but hold Grantaire's gaze then, savour how vulnerable she looks, how open.

_You’re such a beautiful person. I wish I believed like you believe._

'Your hot chocolate,' the bartender says in a bored voice, and as Enjolras turns back and hands over the change in her purse, Grantaire sets off to claim a seat at Bahorel's booth.

Enjolras follows. Courfeyrac stands up to let her slide in between her and Combeferre, and she sits there, grasping the warm mug with two hands, breathing in the vapour. She listens to their raucous banter, their gossip and hyperbole, and smiles, half to herself, warm and content. Now and then, Combeferre gives her arm a little squeeze to assure her she's not forgotten, and Enjolras knocks gently against her side, an unspoken _thank you_.

She's so lucky, she thinks: so cherished, so full of love.

-

In the broad light of day, the campus looks nothing short of _incredible_.

At the bottom of the underpass, Enjolras just stops short, and stares. She's not the only one. Her own chalk messages on the concrete underfoot pale in comparison to the explosion of colour along the side of the art school building. Grantaire's spray-paint mural is wildly vivid and expressive. A figure yelling into a megaphone—ALERTA ALERTA ANTIFASCISTA!, the words highlighted by gold flame—against a backdrop of the anarchist flag. It’s a simple design and a simple message, but the swirling colour makes it difficult for Enjolras to tear her eyes away.

Around Enjolras, there are students with their phones raised, taking pictures. She doesn't blame them. The piece is detailed, passionate; it belongs in a museum of modern art, and Grantaire painted it in less than an hour, _in the dark_.

Pretending to take notes in her Political Science lecture, Enjolras opens Facebook messenger on her laptop, and types to Combeferre:

_Have you seen R's mural?_

Combeferre's reply arrives seconds later. _I saw it shared on my feed ~5 times before I actually saw it in real life._

Enjolras chest swells with pride. _I didn't realise she was an artist._

 

_Neither did I._

_It's useful to have her on our team, at any rate._

_The Thénardier blog has received about a hundred hits in the last hour, which, considering it concerns student politics, is pretty good._

 

_What's next?_

 

_I'm drafting a motion for the student council re:Thénardier._

_I'm also looking into potentially petitioning the general council._

_I think you and Courf should do some campaigning on the ground._

 

 _Okay, I'll text her. Thanks._  Enjolras hesitates. _Are you excited?_

 

_Anxious, mostly. We've got so much to do._

 

_I'm excited. I wasn't until now. Just angry. But now I've seen how people are reacting to the mural, I think we might be able to really change things._

 

_Well, if you're excited, good. That's energy you can use when you're cold calling at student housing later._

 

_Noooooo not cold calling FUCK COLD CALLING_

 

 _Hahaha_.

 

She can barely sit still for the rest of the lecture, twitching out of her skin, her mind thrumming with ideas, and by the time the professor concludes, ‘That’s all for today, now, remember to check your assignments on the webs—’ Enjolras is already out of her seat and halfway towards the door.

-

'How did I not realise you could paint like that?' Enjolras says, glancing up at Grantaire in the middle of half-hearted push-up #3.

Grantaire frowns. 'I literally have a Fine Arts degree. Didn't Bahorel tell you?'

'What?' Enjolras splutters.

'You're sticking your arse up in the air again, Athena. Keep your back straight.'

'Fuck you,' Enjolras says, and tries again. 'No, Bahorel didn't tell me.'

'Well, at the moment I'm tutoring in art history while I work on my PhD. It's a whole thing.'

'How do you get from art to boxing?'

'I contain multitudes. Come on, you can get deeper than that. You should really be able to feel it in your chest.'

'I fucking hate this,' Enjolras groans. 'Why does anyone ever do this?'

'You tell me.'

Enjolras' arms are trembling. She grits her teeth, and drops down again.

'It's useful to do something physical if your other interests all involve spending a lot of time in your own head,' Grantaire says. 'For me, anyway. It keeps me going—well, more insane than I am by nature.'

'The word "insane" is pejorative and ableist,' Enjolras gasps.

'Two more. You can do it. Also, shut up, Enjolras, I can call myself insane if I want.'

Enjolras manages one and a half, and crumples to the floor.

'Pathetic,' Grantaire sighs, shaking her head with something like fondness. 'Oh well. Get up and give me two minutes of jump squats, starting in one—two—'

-

It's possible Enjolras should have noticed earlier. Maybe the first time she found herself unable to look away from Grantaire, snarling, dark-eyed and dangerous in boxing class; the first time she caught herself wondering anxiously if Grantaire would be at the ABC meeting that night, nearly making herself late by stopping to check her hair in the wing mirrors of parked cars. Maybe the first time she felt her heart race when Grantaire said her name.

Then again, in her defence, Enjolras has never experienced so much as a whiff of romantic inclination in her life. How is she supposed to know what it feels like?

When she finally does notice, it's a quiet night in the university library. After spending all week scheming and campaigning with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, sitting up all night in their apartment, swapping draft motion proposals for student council, getting into wars on Twitter and Facebook and shit-talking their various political enemies, she's, once again, managed to get behind on coursework. Combeferre has barred her from all campaign activity until she hits the thousand-word count on her essay on the Spanish Civil War, but even in the library, surrounded by towers of books, gazing at the blinking cursor on a blank Word document, the temptation to open up Tweetdeck is too much to resist.

So it transpires that at eleven pm, after an entire afternoon and evening at her desk, her word count remains at only 400, and she's nodding off at her desk.

'Hey, Athena.'

She blinks up blearily. Grantaire is there in front of her, like a mirage.

She starts. 'Oh. Hi. I didn't see you there.'

Grantaire looks fresh, soft and cosy in a knitted sweater and leggings, loose wisps of hair falling out of her bun, carrying two venti Starbucks in a cup holder.

'I know Starbucks isn't ideologically pure,' she says cheerfully, 'but it's the only place open right now, so. Want one?'

Enjolras frowns. 'How did you know I was here?'

'I'm working up on the third floor,' Grantaire explains. 'Walked past you when I went out on my coffee break.'

Enjolras accepts the coffee, takes a gulp. 'Shit, it's strong.'

'Looked like you needed it.' She grins. 'How's that going, there?'

Enjolras groans and covers her eyes. 'I've done nothing. Literally nothing. This is due next week.'

'You'll be fine,' Grantaire says, waving a hand dismissively. 'I'm supposed to meet with my PhD supervisor tomorrow, and do you know what I've got to show her? Fuck all.'

Enjolras peeks between her fingers. 'Tomorrow?'

'Ten o'clock in the morning,' she confirms.

'Shit,' Enjolras sighs, letting her hands drop. 'That makes me feel better.'

'I'm just going as hard as I can and taking breaks on the hour.' Grantaire stretches out her shoulders, one after the other. 'My next one is at midnight, if you want to join.'

Enjolras shrugs. 'Yeah, why not.'

'I'll meet you by the front desk, then,' says Grantaire, and salutes her. 'Solidarity, comrade.'

'Shut up,' Enjolras says, despite the sudden glow of warmth in her stomach.

Grantaire leaves, and Enjolras finally reopens her Word document, refocuses, and sets her fingers to the keyboard. An hour later, her coffee cup is empty, and she's another 500 words in, wide awake, her brain alight with ideas.

She meets Grantaire by the entrance, where she's lighting a cigarette.

'I'd offer you one,' Grantaire says, 'but, you know.'

'Best not,' Enjolras agrees. 

'Shall we go for a wander?'

They set off around the square under the pale streetlights, breath making vapour in the cold night air.

'I think I'm finally getting somewhere,' Enjolras says. 'It must have been the Starbucks that did it.'

'Must have been,' Grantaire agrees easily, blowing out smoke. 'Want to sit?'

They're at the steps outside the art building. Enjolras nods.

They settle there, on the cold concrete, Grantaire's mural in full view. Enjolras leans back, admiring the painting’s intricate highlights and the shadows.

'I can't get over it,' she blurts.

When Grantaire says nothing, she glances over to find Grantaire watching her with raised eyebrows.

'The mural,' she clarifies. 'It's just so good. You put so much into it.'

Grantaire still doesn't respond.

Enjolras says, quieter, 'Do you really not care about any of the work we're doing?'

'It's not that I don't care about it.' Grantaire's eyes flick away. 'I just don't believe in it.'

In the dim light, Grantaire's eyes are so dark they glitter. Enjolras can't see her expression properly, but there's something melancholy in the twist of her mouth. She watches Grantaire’s large, spidery hands, the cigarette held between long fingers.

'If anyone could make me believe,' Grantaire says, pausing to take a long drag, 'it'd be you.'

She crushes the stub on the step beside her.

'What does that mean?' Enjolras asks. It comes out barely above a whisper.

Grantaire turns to look at her, and Enjolras sees the ironic smirk slip off her face, replaced by something serious; something like fear. Grantaire's lips part as if she's about to speak. Nothing comes out.

Enjolras is leaning closer before she’s given herself permission: half a blink and she finds herself in Grantaire’s space. Her eyes fall from Grantaire’s own, to her lips, to the loose lock of hair clinging to the curve between her neck and shoulder—the trapezius, Enjolras remembers faintly, from one time she helped Combeferre with biology revision—and that—that, there, makes Enjolras feel something, because the lock of hair looks so soft and shiny and she wants to twist it around her finger. The skin of Grantaire’s neck looks so delicate, Enjolras is close enough that she can see the fine hairs, and she can’t help wondering: if she blew out a light breath there, could she draw out a shiver?

Grantaire visibly swallows. For a moment, her eyes are clouded, drugged.

 A moment later, she's up and on her feet.

'Better get this presentation finished,' she mumbles, and flees.

Enjolras, frozen, does not follow.

She'd been about to kiss Grantaire, she realises, belatedly. She nearly kissed Grantaire, because she _wants to kiss Grantaire_.

She wants to kiss someone for the first time in her life, and that person is _Grantaire_.

She is so fucked.

-

_Courf, are you awake?_

 

_yeah b what's the haps_

 

_I have a personal problem, and I’d like your advice. I need you to take my question seriously, and not make fun of me._

 

_i would NEVER_

_..._

_ok i promise i won’t  
ily_

 

_So obviously, you've had a lot of relationships, and I've had none. How do you know when you like someone romantically?_

 

_…is this about you & r_

 

_WTF?_

 

_you stare at her a lot_

_a L O T_

 

_Can you just answer the question?_

 

_ok_

_i'll try_

_i think it's different for everyone, but this is what it's like for me:_  
_you meet someone & become sort of fascinated with them & their energy—that's having a crush_  
_you just find yourself looking at them & thinking of them a lot_  
_you can imagine being more than their friend_  
_sometimes it won't go further than that_  
_it'll fade, or they'll say something gross, or get a bad haircut_  
_or lmao you finally have sex with them & realise you have no actual chemistry_*  
_*me and floreal_  
_(oh my god enjolras it was the first time i've had to fake an orgasm with a woman in my LIFE)_  
_sorry_  
_anyway_  
_sometimes it's like that but other times the fascination just... deepens?_  
_you get sort of addicted to that energy flowing between the two of you_  
_objective flaws, things other people find annoying, even things YOU find annoying—they just fill out your picture of this person, make it more complete, sort of  
__& more than anything, you just want them around_

 

_Okay._

_Thanks. You've given me lots to think about._

 

_no prob_

_i can't believe i'm having this convo with you_

_lil enjy all grown up_

 

_Fuck off. I'm going to sleep now._

 

_love ya_

-

Enjolras doesn’t know what to do about it, so she decides to do nothing. After all, the Thénardier campaign takes priority.

At first, it’s going so well.

Grantaire's mural receives hundreds of thousands of shares on social media, resulting in pieces in both the student and local press, explaining the work as a protest piece against the election of Thénardier as Chancellor, and including a passage from Combeferre's blog describing the election as 'a disgusting, offensive celebration of elitism and exclusivism', as well as a terse quote from the principal in response:

_‘The Chancellor must be elected by general council. As principal, I am mandated to honour their democratic decision.’_

'He clearly thinks it's better not to engage,' says Combeferre. 'He thinks, because we've technically violated property law, he'll be able to show us up as being unhinged vandals and rioters. But right now, we're winning. We've got people on our side.'

They create an online petition to re-open nominations for University Chancellor, and Courfeyrac and Enjolras wander the campus wielding iPads, gathering signatures. Their target is 1000: they reach it within two weeks.

The first problem arises when they try to bring their motion to student council condemning the election of the Chancellor as undemocratic. Enjolras and Combeferre pore over the motion for days, nit-picking and fact-checking, but somehow, they still don’t see it coming.

The president of the student union is Felix Tholomyès, and his meetings are dominated by his friends—a group of privileged, jocular frat boys with government jobs already lined up for them after graduation.

'Come _on_ ,' goes his speech against the motion, accompanied by a grin, as if the whole idea is a hilarious joke. 'There's always been a Chancellor, and it's never posed a problem until right now. What's more, it has never had anything to do with _elitism_ or _privilege_. It's about history, and tradition, and British values. This is one of the oldest existing universities in Europe. The installation of a Chancellor is just another way to celebrate the fact that this institution is part of the foundation of modern Britain. The far-left want to get rid of every trace of our past under the guise of political correctness—' A cheer goes up. 'Our history and our traditions are under siege by the left, and we must do all we can do protect them!' he concludes, to applause.

Enjolras exchanges a weary look with Combeferre from across the room. The motion falls through.

It’s still not the end of the line. They draft a letter to the principal with their petition attached; await a response.

The day of the inauguration draws closer and closer. They get radio silence.

One week to the date, Enjolras calls an emergency ABC meeting in her apartment.

'There's nothing we can do,' Grantaire says immediately.

Enjolras tries very hard not to roll her eyes.

'There are things we can do,' Enjolras says, tightly. 'If the principal is going to refuse to respond, then we're going to have to hold a demonstration. We need to be more visible. We need to rally.’

‘The ceremony for the installation of Thénardier is due to take place in the law building,’ says Combeferre. ‘It all depends how we want to approach this. We could do an occupation?’

'That's probably the most feasible option,' Courfeyrac agrees. 'It's not a restricted area. We'll be able to stay there for as long as we like.'

'Until Thénardier arrives with his security, and they throw us in jail for trespassing on a protected area,' Grantaire retorts.

'Well, yes,' Combeferre says, after a moment. 'There is always that possibility.'

'I don't know if occupation is the most powerful way to get our message across,' Enjolras says, thinking out loud. 'Occupations aren't a spectacle; they fade into the background. Our entire protest would be over before the ceremony had even started. To a lot of people, it wouldn't even be obvious what we were there for.'

'So a real demonstration,' Bahorel suggests. 'Get people out on the streets.'

Jehan raises their hand tentatively. 'I was thinking about this after Tholomyès won the motion,' they say. 'When it's just the elites in a room like that, it's—so smug. It's an echo chamber. I think our best hope is to add a sour note to the proceedings. You know, to quote one of this generation's great lyricists, we've got to be in "the room where it happens".'

Feuilly, who hates musicals, groans loudly. Courfeyrac admonishes her with a sharp smack on the arm.

'Are you suggesting we hijack the ceremony while it's happening?' Combeferre says slowly.

'Well, that's just increasing your chances of getting arrested from ninety percent to about one hundred and fifty,' Grantaire remarks.

'There's a high chance we're going to run into trouble with the police no matter what we do,' Enjolras says. 'It's not a risk all of us can afford to take—but for me, I'm happy to take it, alone if I need to. The stakes for me are a lot lower. You know. Since I both look and sound like a cast member of Made in Chelsea.' Hardly anyone laughs, probably because Enjolras sounds extremely bitter. 'Anyway, I've been arrested before. The police know me, and they don't love me, but I know what to do in that situation.'

'I'm happy to come with,' Courfeyrac offers.

'Yeah, me too,’ says Feuilly. ‘As an older faculty member, I’m allowed to be in attendance. I could stand with you, if that would help to reinforce your legitimacy at all.’

Enjolras nods, straightens up. She likes it like this, likes knowing she has a series of solid steps to take. A plan is taking shape. 'Right. I'll explore the building, figure out how to break in.'

'I just want to reiterate that this is an extremely stupid plan,' Grantaire begins, and this time, she's met with groans.

'R, you're a broken record,' says Bossuet. 'Lighten up.'

'So, we know what Courf, Enj and Feuilly are doing,' Combeferre says. 'The rest of us could march or rally outside?'

'Make a Facebook event,' Bahorel advises. 'I don't know if we'll get big numbers on such short notice, but it'll be better if we have something to share around. And if there's a demo distracting police and security from the main event, more's the better.'

‘Alright!’ Courfeyrac cheers.

-

Grantaire catches Enjolras by the arm on the way out of Feminist Fight Club.

'You ready for the inauguration tomorrow?' she asks quietly.

Enjolras turns around to face her, shrugs.

'Yeah, I suppose. We found out that the room has a fire exit, so that's useful. Feuilly can bust the door from the inside, no trouble at all—'

'I don't want to know.' Grantaire rubs her eyes, blows out a breath, looking ten years older all at once. 'There's no way I can talk you out of this, is there.' It's not a question.

Enjolras bites her lip. 'Look, I _know_ you don't think this is worth the fight. I know you think trying to change the world always ends in tears. I know you think people who care get crushed like ants.'

Grantaire's eyes flick up to Enjolras' face.

'And I get it,' Enjolras goes on. 'I really do. Every day I stand up for what I believe in, the world throws it back in my face. It's like that myth about the man who has to spend an eternity pushing the rock up the hill—'

'Sisyphus,' Grantaire supplies, with a choked, wild, laugh.

'That's the one.' She finds herself smiling, too. 'But I need to believe I was put on earth for a reason, even if it's just to make some tiny, barely discernible increment of change. I _have_ to believe that, or I'll—I’ll disintegrate, or die, or something. It's the only thing that keeps me going.'

She becomes aware that her voice is now the only sound in the deserted studio; aware that they're standing very close, inches between them. Aware, too, that for some reason, her words sound like a plea.

Grantaire isn't laughing anymore.

'Enjolras,' she says, barely louder than a whisper.

They are awfully close, and Grantaire's eyes are so dark and serious. There's something between them, unexpressed, but so thick as to almost be tangible.

Enjolras' heart is seizing with terror, and she finds herself calculating the movements it would take to close the distance between them, to catch Grantaire's mouth in a kiss. She's only taller by an inch or so. It would be nothing to just dip her head down, place a hand under Grantaire's jaw. She feels herself moving forward, the pull almost magnetic. Fuck, she wants—

Grantaire jerks back, blinking furiously. 'Sorry,' she says, though Enjolras can't imagine what for. 'I'll see you tomorrow, Athena. Good luck, and everything.'

'See you,' Enjolras echoes.

Grantaire's gone without so much as a glance back.

-

They're ready.

Thénardier's security are scattered around the law school's main entrance; there are more out by the door of the hall where the ceremony is to occur. It's preceded by a wine reception, and the room is already filling up, groups forming for small-talk over glasses of merlot. No-one notices Feuilly opening the fire exit, or Enjolras and Courfeyrac slipping inside. They head to the cloakroom outside the ladies’, where they can loiter semi-inconspicuously and hide their protest sign under piles of jackets.

They don't speak much. Enjolras is glued to her phone. The demo is making slow progress from the city centre, to the main student housing sites, the university campus, the law school. Combeferre is sending sending Enjolras real time snaps of Jehan, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, masked up for their black bloc, holding signs declaiming: 'EDUCATION FOR THE MASSES!', 'FIGHT FASCISM', 'RACIST SCUM OFF OUR CAMPUS!' From the looks of things, it's not a bad turn out: there are more than a few unfamiliar faces in the background.

Grantaire is there, too, Enjolras notes, wearing a white t-shirt ripped at the sleeves, decorated with the words 'No Justice, No Peace' in rainbow coloured marker. Enjolras maybe feels a funny jolt in her stomach at that.

'This is happening,' Courfeyrac says under her breath, and Enjolras finally looks up. Courfeyrac is flushed, beaming, bright with adrenaline. 'We're really going to do this. Do you have stage fright?'

Enjolras bites back a smile, shakes her head.

'I do, a bit,' Courfeyrac confesses, with a giggle. 'I don't know why, though. It's not like I'm in the school play and I have to worry about fucking up my lines.'

Enjolras takes Courfeyrac's hand, interlocks their fingers, squeezes tight.

'I love you so much,' she says. 'I'm so glad I get to do this with you. I'm so proud I'm standing by your side.'

'Oh, babe,' Courfeyrac says, sounding strangled, 'I love you, too,' and she folds Enjolras into a hug, holds her close. Enjolras breathes the familiar, comforting scent of Courfeyrac's lavender fabric softener, and finds herself gripping on as if the world is spinning and Courfeyrac’s the only thing holding her steady.

They stay like that, until they hear the noise in the hall begin to die down, and draw apart, pressing closer to the door.

'When do we...' Courfeyrac whispers. Enjolras makes a shushing motion.

Principal Gillenormand's voice rings out into the silence. 'Ladies and gentlemen, good afternoon. It is my pleasure to welcome you to the inauguration ceremony for our Chancellor-elect, Sir Thénardier—'

Cheers and applause. Courfeyrac rolls her eyes.

'The role of the Chancellor is the greatest honour conferred by this institution...'

'Our first speaker welcoming Sir Thénardier to the university this afternoon is Longridge alumni, prolific author and Pulitzer-winner, Mr Fauchelevent!'

Halfway into the round of speeches, Courfeyrac gets bored and starts playing Candy Crush. Enjolras checks her own phone. There's a message from Combeferre.

_Has it started yet?_

_We got in easy enough—the ceremony has begun—wine reception & speeches—waiting for T to take his place on the podium_

_Good luck comrade. See you soon. X_

Enjolras exhales, long and shaky, feeling warmed from the inside out. Soon it will be over, soon she'll get to see Combeferre's face, Grantaire's—

'And now, without further ado, let us welcome Sir Thénardier to the stage!'

Enjolras elbows Courfeyrac so hard she almost drops her phone.

'Ready?' Courfeyrac mouths.

Enjolras gives a sharp nod, and grabs her hand. They march out in front of the stage, Courfeyrac blowing a whistle, Enjolras holding her protest sign aloft.

 _'No Pasaran! No Pasaran!_ '

A sea of faces stares back at them, shocked. From the audience, Feuilly stands up, raises her fist. 'Fascist scum off our campus! Immigrants welcome, racists out!'

Immediately, the security guards snap into action, hurrying down the aisle. One man grabs Enjolras roughly, pins her hands behind her back, the grip on her wrists bone-crushing—'Don't fucking _touch_ me,' she spits, suddenly furious, and, remembering Grantaire's defence techniques, jabs with her elbow. He grunts, winded, his grasp loosening; Enjolras has no time to savour the satisfaction before the room is swarmed by police and she and Courfeyrac are hauled from the premises.

'Miss, I'm afraid we're going to have to search you. My name is Sergeant Robertson from the Longridge Police—'

'By what power?' Enjolras spits. 'On what grounds?'

The police officer's mouth twists, ugly. 'Are you fucking kidding, sweetheart?'

Enjolras knows better than to respond to that, shuts her mouth and submits to being frisked, then handcuffed and marched across the courtyard. She catches sight of the ABC demo, their signs raised high, police now surrounding them in a kettle.

She and Courfeyrac are bundled into a police car. As they set off, Enjolras watches as the protest stretches further and further away, feeling numb.

-

She's done this before, of course, and she'd known perfectly well she'd be doing it again today. But no matter how many times she ends up here, Enjolras never gets used to the closet-like jail cell, the blank walls, the way the overhead strip lights drain everything of colour.

It’s only a few hours, but it feels as if days pass by. Courfeyrac goes for questioning first, and Enjolras is left alone, twitching out of her skin with the sickening dread of _What if_? What if they put a foot wrong, piss off the wrong official? What if the police decide they're terrorists and they're detained there for the rest of the month? What if one of them slips up and lands one of their friends in it, somehow?

Of course, none of that happens.

Enjolras gives her name and address, then no-comments her way through questioning. Her questioner is a middle-aged man, who becomes increasingly irate at Enjolras' lack of affect, slams his fist down on the table, alternating between threats and pleas— _listen, if you don't tell us, we'll have to assume you're a terrorist; just tell us what you were doing, you can do that, can't you, sweetheart?_

Enjolras doesn't even have to feign her boredom. It’s too warm in the interrogation room. She has to stifle a yawn twice.

As predicted, they let her go without charges due to lack of evidence, with the caveat they can bring her back for further questioning at a later date, and when she walks into the foyer, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and—for some reason—Grantaire, are waiting for her.

She smiles weakly, and Combeferre stands up to give her a hug, rubbing circles between her shoulder blades.

'Were they rough with you?' she says in her ear.

'No, no, they were okay,' Enjolras assures her. 'We're fine.'

Combeferre squeezes her tight before they part. Enjolras realises Grantaire has risen to her feet as well, and that there are tears streaking silently down her cheeks.

'R, are you—'

Grantaire swipes the back of her hand over her eyes, even as her eyes fill again. 'Enjolras—I was so fucking scared—'

Enjolras glances at Courfeyrac, who is watching them curiously, then beckons for Grantaire to follow her to the exit. They stand out in the car park. Grantaire is still crying quietly, so hard that her shoulders shake.

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras says softly, at a loss. She reaches out, but Grantaire shrugs off her touch.

'I’m sorry, but please, never do that again,' she says. 'I know it's a selfish thing to ask, but I have to ask it. I thought I was okay with—all of this, but then I saw you get dragged out and thrown into a police car, and just—a million things went through my head, stories about people getting fucked up by the police, people getting hurt in jail—please, just. Don't ever do that again.' A sob escapes her throat, a torn, painful sound. 'It really isn't worth it, Enjolras. I promise you, it isn't. Not worth throwing your future away. If you got hurt because you were protesting some idiotic university event that _doesn’t fucking matter_ —’ She shakes her head. 'You're—', her voice breaking, 'you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and—fuck it. I’ve been falling in love with you since we met, and I couldn't fucking stand it.'

Enjolras blinks. The grey car park, sun hanging low in the late afternoon sky, Grantaire in front of her with her tearstained face and tangled hair, suddenly feels like a dreamscape.

 _I’ve been falling in love with you_. Did she hear that right?

'Grantaire—’

'Sorry,' Grantaire interrupts, 'fuck, sorry, I shouldn't have said any of that, I'll get going—’

' _Grantaire—_ '

'It's fine,' she calls, already halfway across the street. 'Be with your friends. I'll see you later.'

Enjolras is left dumbly wondering what the fuck just happened.

-

She goes back inside, and is met by the sight of Courfeyrac and Combeferre making out rapturously on one of the cheap plastic seats in the foyer, Combeferre in Courfeyrac’s lap, hand fisted in her shirt, Courfeyrac’s face stunned and helpless.

Enjolras blinks. That dreamlike feeling is back.

Combeferre notices her first, pulls back. Courfeyrac glances up, catches her gaze, and immediately swears.

Enjolras shakes her head, exhausted. ‘This day cannot get more bizarre.’

‘We were just,’ Combeferre starts.

Enjolras waves her hand tiredly. ‘No, no, go ahead, I’m happy for you. But you won’t mind if I call for separate taxis?’

Courfeyrac’s gaze has returned to somewhere around the vicinity of Combeferre’s mouth. ‘No,’ she says, voice breathy, ‘not a problem,’ she says, and Combeferre makes a weak sound and pulls her back in.

Enjolras cringes and turns her back to make the call.

-

Grantaire doesn't reply to texts, Facebook messages or emails. She doesn't answer the phone when Enjolras calls. As a result, Enjolras' nerves are shot, and she has nothing to take the edge off—no hint of what Grantaire's words might have meant, no sign she's okay. Enjolras wants, badly, to ask Courfeyrac or Combeferre for advice, but what Grantaire told her is such a tender, raw and bleeding thing. She feels duty-bound to keep it to herself, for Grantaire's sake. And further, she _wants_  to keep it to herself, to tuck the memory away for safekeeping, only to be examined in soft quiet moments.

_I've been falling in love—_

In the aftermath of the protest, she's kept busy, giving statements to various newspapers, writing a guest post for Combeferre's blog, researching for a new thesis on protests and the history of the police force in the UK, drafting a new motion for student council, proposing that the student union officially neither recognises nor condones Thénardier as Chancellor.

At least she'll see Grantaire at the ABC meeting, she reasons. She washes her hair the day of the meeting, and dabs a little of the lemongrass scent her mother got her for Christmas on her inner wrists, for reasons she couldn't rightly explain to anyone if they asked.

She's early, as always—earlier, even, than Combeferre. She takes a seat, sets up her laptop, sips from a travel mug filled with steaming black coffee. She scrolls through Twitter absently, opening a few links, her eyes flying to the door at every small noise.

Eventually, the rest of the group flood in. Grantaire is nowhere to be seen.

'Enjolras,' Combeferre says gently. 'Is it alright if I just start?'

'Just, give it a couple more minutes,' Enjolras says, willing her voice to sound casual. 'Just for any stragglers, you know.'

Combeferre nods.

Another five pass, and Enjolras is forced to give in and let the meeting commence. Every now and then, she can't help but let her eyes wander to the door.

At the end of the meeting, when everyone else has cleared out and Enjolras is stacking chairs, Combeferre says, quietly, 'Enjolras?'

'Mmhmm?' She busies herself with the tidying to avoid eye contact. Combeferre could always read her better than anyone else.

'Is there something going on with you?'

Enjolras lets go of a breath, turns around.

'Nothing you need to worry about,' she says, voice firm.

Combeferre nods, looking marginally reassured. 'Right. But just so you know, I'm here for you. Anything you need, anything at all—'

Enjolras smiles. 'I know, 'Ferre. I really do. I'd trust you with my life a thousand times over.'

Combeferre breaks into a smile of her own at that. 'You're such a sap.'

Enjolras hitches her backpack up onto her shoulders, and loops her arm under Combeferre's as they head into the back room.

It's good to be close to someone. But—and the thought comes unbidden, and accompanied by a low tug of yearning in Enjolras' stomach—it's not _enough_.

-

Whenever Enjolras isn't working, she cleans her apartment. Every square inch is scrubbed until it gleams; she deep cleans the fridge and the microwave and the cupboards, dusts the bookshelves, shampoos the carpets. The air is stiff with the pungent scent of bleach.

About four days in, when she runs out of things to clean, she works out—some appropriation of the series of bodyweight exercises Grantaire makes them do to warm up: push-ups, sprints, burpees, squat thrusts, faster and faster until her hair is sticking to her forehead and her shirt is soaked through.

She still holds on to a tiny shred of hope for Thursday—Grantaire is paid to take the boxing class by the student union, after all, and there's no-one to cover it—but when she opens the ABC group chat that morning and finds a message from Bahorel, she isn't hugely shocked, either.

_guys just so you know r can't make it to her class tonight she's got a sickness bug. the cancellation is written up on the website etc but she asked me to make sure the word got out just so no one shows up confused_

Enjolras sits upright in bed, and doesn't hesitate before hitting Bahorel's name and pressing Call.

'Enjolras?'

'Hi,' Enjolras says. 'I just wanted to know when you heard from Grantaire? I've been trying to get hold of her for a few days, but she's not replying to my messages.'

'I'm fine, thank you, Enjolras, how are you?' Bahorel quips. 'Do you realise it's nine o'clock in the morning? Normal people don't make social calls at nine o'clock in the morning.'

'Bahorel, please. I'm worried about her.'

Bahorel snorts. 'Don't be, honestly. I would bet you the entire contents of my bank account that her "sickness bug" is self-inflicted. She sent me that voicemail about not being able to take the class at—hold on, let me check. 3:38am.'

Enjolras goes cold. _Fuck_.

She launches herself out of bed, starts pacing.

'Do you know where Grantaire likes to drink?'

'I don't know, just the usual places? Corinthe, student bars, that kind of thing? Sorry, she doesn't generally keep me, like, super informed of her machinations—'

'Okay.' Enjolras breathes in and out, trying to slow her racing heart. 'Thanks. I've got to go, I'll catch you later.'

'Uh, _Enjolras_ —'

She hangs up.

-

There's a mid-afternoon buzz in the Corinthe. Enjolras is out of breath by the time she reaches the bar, looks around, quickly ascertaining that Grantaire is nowhere in the vicinity, and then has to wait, scuffing her foot on the floor and fidgeting, for the bartender to notice her.

He glances up. 'Yes?'

'Hi,' says Enjolras. 'I'm looking for someone. I was just wondering if this girl—' She holds up her phone, with Grantaire's Facebook profile picture onscreen. '—has been in today.'

The bartender leans in, squinting.

'Nah,' he says, finally. 'I don't recognise her. Hold on, though, my co-worker Musichetta was on the morning shift. Chetta! C'mere a minute!'

A small, round woman with dark witchy eyes emerges from the back room. 'Uh huh?'

'Do you know who this is?'

Enjolras hands her the phone. She peers for a moment, then brightens.

'Oh, that's Capital R! She used to be a regular in here. A regular everywhere, actually.'

'Has she been in today or yesterday?' Enjolras presses.

Musichetta shakes her head. 'Sorry.'

'Do you know anywhere else she likes to drink?'

She laughs. 'The more pertinent question would be where _doesn’t_ she like to drink. Man, R was such a riot back in the day. She used to say she'd splash vodka on her face to wake her up in the morning. Said it did wonders for the complexion.'

'I really need to talk to her,' Enjolras says. 'It's kind of an emergency. She's not answering my texts, but I'm pretty sure she's out, so if you've any idea of the kind of place she'd go...'

Musichetta pauses a moment. 'Well, I went out with her a couple of times when I first started working here. We always ended up in this old pool hall fifteen minutes up the road, I can’t remember what it’s called. Maggie’s? Something beginning with M.’

'Are you thinking of Misty's?' the bartender chips in.

Musichetta slams her hand down on the bar. ' Misty's! That’s it.'

'God, what a shithole,' he comments.

'£2 drinks, though,' says Musichetta. 'Yeah, that was her place. Grantaire used to get into Misty's at about eight am and not leave ’til last call, most weekends.'

Enjolras feels hope bubble up in her chest. 'I'll stop by and see if she's been in. Thank you both, so much,' she says. 'You've been such a help.' She digs into her wallet, pulls out a couple of fivers, slides them over the bar. 'Call that a tip, split it between you.'

Musichetta's mouth drops open in delight. 'Shit,' she says. 'Well, if you find her, tell her hi from me.'

'I will,' Enjolras assures her, and waves goodbye before setting off at a sprint.

-

Misty's truly is a shithole.

Enjolras walks past the place three times by accident. Only Google Maps informs her of her mistake. The sign declaring 'Misty's Pool Hall' above the door is tiny, faded, its yellow letters peeling. Two heavy-set, red-faced men stand in the doorway, smoking.

'Excuse me,' she says. They don't seem to hear.

She raises her voice. 'Excuse me?'

'Oh, sorry, darling,' one of the men blusters, 'didn't see you there,' and he shifts just enough for Enjolras to edge past, slip inside the darkened pub.

The thick smell of stale cigarette smoke hits her nostrils instantly. The walls are stained brown with nicotine residue. The patrons—mostly old men, nursing pints of lager and ale—sit at the bar, where the bartender, a middle-aged, red-haired woman with a gold front tooth, is chatting and sipping idly at her own glass of whisky.

There's one other woman in the whole pub. Her laugh pierces the air, and Enjolras' stomach drops. She stops short, shrinks back into the shadows, watching.

'So is that you back with us again for good, Capital R?' asks one of the old men.

'Tha's right,' says Grantaire, thickly. 'I've recognised the error of my ways.'

Someone claps her on the back. 'We knew you'd see the light.'

'You're too young to be so serious!' the other man exclaims. 'All this "I'm off the drink" shite! Listen, you've got to make the most of your youth while you've got it. When else in your life can you get away with getting drunk in broad daylight on a Thursday afternoon without people bitching at you?'

' _See_?' Grantaire yells. 'Ex- _aaaact_ -ly! Everyone's like, blah, blah, you drink too much—shut the fuck up, I'm still a young girl! I'm in my 20s! This is my time! I can do what I want!'

'Quite right! Linda, can you get us another one for R over here?'

Grantaire clutches the man's arm then, convulsively. 'Oh, Babet, thank you. You are a _true_ friend, did you know that?'

'Aw, R, I've missed you too.' He raises his voice. 'Everyone! To Capital R!'

'To Capital R!' all the men sitting at the bar cheer, and down their drinks. Grantaire grins, her cheeks flushed.

Enjolras approaches the bar cautiously; slides in between Babet and Grantaire.

'Grantaire?'

Grantaire does an exaggeratedly slow, drunken double-take.

'Athena? What the fuck?'

'Is this your friend, R?' Babet asks. 'What are you drinking, honey?'

'I'm alright, thanks,' Enjolras tries, but Babet's hollering down the bar for Linda the bartender's attention again, who pulls a pint of beer and slams it in front of Enjolras authoritatively, as if to say, _drink, or else_.

She takes an obedient sip. It's rancid. She wrinkles her nose.

Grantaire is still watching her, wide-eyed, as if she's a prophetic vision.

'What,' she starts, then clears her throat. 'What are you doing here?'

'I came to see if you were alright,' Enjolras says, simply. 'I asked around at the Corinthe. Met an old friend of yours—Musichetta? She said this was your favourite place.'

Babet has lost interest by now, turned away to flirt with Linda instead. Enjolras breathes easier, no longer under scrutiny.

'I'm alright,' Grantaire says. 'You don't need to—chase me about, worry about me. I'm _fine_ , Enjolras. I'm always fine.'

Enjolras blinks at her. 'Clearly not.'

At that, Grantaire groans. 'Oh, come on, can you not—I can have a drink now and again, it's not a big deal—'

'Weren't you out last night too?'

'So what if I was? Maybe I'm indulging in a little hair of the dog—'

'Hair of the dog doesn’t actually work, R.'

' _Ughhhhh_ ,' Grantaire says, and puts her head down on the bar in apparent defeat.

'R?’

She gets no response.

'Here's an idea,' Enjolras says. 'We go home, and you go to bed and get some rest, and in the morning, we have a talk.'

There's a pause, and Enjolras wonders momentarily if Grantaire has passed out right there at the bar. Then Grantaire says, her voice suddenly childlike, 'Can I finish my drink first?'

Enjolras sighs. 'Yes, you can. I'm not going anywhere.’

Grantaire raises her head, sniffs; Enjolras sees her eyes are glittering with tears just before she wipes them away with the back of her sleeve. The smile she shoots Enjolras' way, then, looks painful.

'I've been reading all your blogs about your—your acts of heroism. Fighting the good fight!' She toasts Enjolras with her half-full glass of beer. 'It seems you were right, as always, being, as you are, the real life love-child of Buffy and Xena. Ridiculous, really, that I'm sitting here next to you. Who would I be if I was a character from Buffy? Xander, probably. He's the useless hanger-on, isn't he?'

'Nah,' says Enjolras, a sucker for Buffy chat despite herself. 'If you're anyone, I think you'd be Faith.'

'Faith?' Grantaire raises her eyebrows. 'Really? Okay. Maybe you're right. I am pretty good at fighting, after all.’ She mimes some karate moves, badly.

Enjolras attempts another sip of her beer.

'No, you see, the lager in here is foul,' Grantaire says, conversationally. 'The only way to drink it is to really chug it, like—watch.' She takes a breath as if to steel herself, then tips her head back and finishes the pint in three swallows.

'Impressive,' says Enjolras dryly.

'Here, give me yours, then we can get out of here faster,' Grantaire says, and swipes it from under Enjolras' nose.

'I said you could finish _your_ drink, not—'

Grantaire downs it, slams the glass proudly on the bar.

'Let's go,' she says, slides off her barstool, and stumbles, zigzagging towards the exit.

Enjolras catches up, steadies her with a firm grip on her shoulder.

'Grantaire, are you—'

'I said, I'm _fine_ ,' mumbles Grantaire, 'I'm always,' and as they make it out into the fresh air, she sways dangerously, says, weakly, 'shit, sorry, I'm,' and throws up.

Enjolras keeps a hand on her back, circling her shoulders as she heaves and shakes.

'That was so disgusting,' Grantaire says, her voice scratchy. ' _I'm_ so disgusting, why am I like this, why do I do these things, it's like I'm fucking _possessed_ —'

'You're not disgusting,' Enjolras says. 'Come on, we're going home.'

Grantaire mutters nonsensically to herself the entire way, barely holding herself up, Enjolras putting all her strength into steering her across the road to the taxi terminal. It’s still early in the day. They’re attracting stares.

Enjolras flags a taxi as quick as she can, and climbs into the back seat after Grantaire.

‘Where to?’ The driver looks at them in the rear-view mirror.

Enjolras gives Grantaire a nudge.

‘Oh, right,’ Grantaire says. ‘Sixty-three Keirton Place, if you please!’

‘Alright. Keirton Place it is.’

Enjolras watches Grantaire closely for signs she might be sick again, but Grantaire’s head is drooping now, eyelids falling shut. When she slumps against Enjolras’ shoulder, Enjolras wraps an arm around her, feeling unaccountably protective.

She looks so small under Enjolras' arm, dark eyelashes fluttering, lips slightly parted. Enjolras is taller, but she has never thought of Grantaire as being _small_ , with her sturdy frame and powerful muscles. But here, now, pressed against Enjolras' side, she looks young and vulnerable. Enjolras swallows a sudden lump in her throat, and looks out of the window for the rest of the ride.

-

'Here,' Enjolras says, pressing the cup of water to Grantaire's lips. 'You'll thank me in the morning.'

Grantaire makes an unhappy sound, hiccups.

'Come on,' Enjolras urges. 'Please? For me?'

'Guh,' Grantaire mumbles, then says something like, 'only cos you're you,' and takes a few gulps.

Enjolras smiles, brushes a strand of Grantaire's hair behind her ear. 'That's it. Keep going.'

She stays there, kneeling opposite Grantaire, until she's emptied the cup, then takes her by the arm.

'Bed,' she says firmly.

Grantaire doesn't argue this time, goes easily, lets Enjolras take off her shoes and tuck her in, blinks up at her sleepily.

'You're an angel,' Grantaire says, reaching out clumsily to touch Enjolras' face. 'An angel.'

Enjolras stifles a laugh. 'Get some rest, R.'

'I like you so much,' Grantaire says, and then closes her eyes, and is gone.

-

Grantaire sleeps until about ten pm, at which time she gets up, walks into the kitchen where Enjolras is making thesis notes on Grantaire’s laptop, silently chugs another cup of water and eats some pasta leftovers out of the fridge, then retreats to her room, and falls asleep again.

Enjolras works late into the night, checking in on Grantaire periodically, then curls up on the couch in Grantaire’s living room, using cushions as pillows and a throw as a blanket.

She stares at the ceiling, feeling cold and strange, listening to the sounds of passing cars outside.

Enjolras rarely questions her own actions or feelings. She’s so used to feeling certain, but she can’t explain to herself why she’s here, in her boxing instructor’s apartment, her mind churning over the question: _what do people mean when they say they’re in love?_

_-_

Enjolras wakes to pale sunlight streaming through the blinds and the sound of the shower running. She reaches for her phone. It's nearly 11am. There are three messages from Combeferre, and several missed calls from Courfeyrac and Feuilly.

She sits up, stretches; walks into Grantaire's kitchen and boils the kettle for the cafetiére.

By the time Grantaire emerges from the bathroom in a baggy t-shirt and shorts, towelling off her dripping hair, Enjolras has set up a tray with two large mugs of coffee, two rounds of toast, and a box of extra strength ibuprofen.

'Coffee,' Grantaire says hoarsely, dropping the towel and snatching a mug. She takes a gulp, closing her eyes in brief ecstasy, before curling up beside Enjolras on the sofa.

Enjolras watches her carefully. 'How are you feeling?'

'Like someone beat my head in with a sledgehammer. I threw up twice in the shower.' She shoots finger guns in Enjolras' direction, grinning.

Enjolras pushes the plate of toast towards her pointedly. Grantaire ignores it in favour of another gulp of coffee.

'What do you remember from yesterday?'

'Most of it, unfortunately.' Grantaire's smile wavers. 'Except getting home. How did we get home?'

'Taxi,' says Enjolras. 'You were half-asleep for most of it.'

She nods, gaze falling. The next couple of minutes are spent in silence as they each sip from their mugs, and Enjolras nibbles at a crust of toast.

Finally, Grantaire speaks again.

'I didn't think you would still be here,' she says.

'I said I would be,' Enjolras reminds her.

'Yes, but.' She shakes her head helplessly, then picks up a slice of toast and bites into it, as if to deter herself from talking by otherwise occupying her mouth.

They finish breakfast, and Enjolras carries the tray through to the kitchen, fills the sink with warm soapy water and starts the dishes.

Over the clatter of plates, she hears the faint, tinny sound of music playing.

When she re-emerges into the living room, Grantaire is standing in front of the mirror hanging on the wall, dragging a brush through her hair as Peaches blasts from her phone. She pulls roughly at the thick knots, swearing as her brush is caught in the tangles.

'Hey,' Enjolras says, moving closer. 'Can I—?’

Grantaire lets her pluck the hairbrush from her hand. Enjolras gets to work.

At the first brush of Enjolras’ fingertips against Grantaire’s scalp, Grantaire kind of gasps. Enjolras pauses.

‘No, it’s fine,’ Grantaire murmurs. ‘Keep going.’

Enjolras separates her hair into sections and combs them gently, working on the tangles with her fingers. It's slow progress. After the first ten minutes or so, Enjolras says, 'Do you want to move over to the couch?' and Grantaire nods wordlessly, taking a seat while Enjolras digs in her backpack for the comb and small bottle of argan oil she keeps, along with her toothbrush, in the back pouch in case of emergency overnight stays. Then she settles, kneeling behind Grantaire, and resumes brushing out the tangles slowly, soothingly.

The tension seeps from Grantaire's body, her shoulders going loose and lax as Enjolras runs oiled fingers over her scalp; her head falls back. 

After a while, Enjolras' feet start to get pins and needles, and she finds it necessary to uncurl and shift until she's bracketing Grantaire with her legs. She's concentrating so hard on her task, on combing out Grantaire's hair, carefully, so as not to pull or tug or hurt her, that she doesn't register how close they’ve become. With every inhale, the scent of Grantaire’s shampoo, her clean skin, washes over her. She’s not aware—until she is—of the way her fingertips linger on the soft nape of Grantaire’s neck.

Maybe Grantaire notices the shift in atmosphere, because she breaks the silence.

'You're weirdly good at this,' she remarks. 'Who would have thought? At least when the rebellious halcyon days of your youth come to an end, you'll still have a career doing hair.'

'Shut up,' Enjolras says, though it comes out softly. And then: 'That's all the worst bits out, now.'

Grantaire turns; Enjolras pulls back to make more room for her on the couch. They're still extremely close, and Enjolras is afraid there's nothing subtle at all about the way her gaze drops immediately to Grantaire's curved mouth, her breath growing shallower. God, she _wants_ —she wants so fucking much that she can't believe she could ever have denied it, kept it buried away. She wants to _taste_ her, wants to suck on Grantaire's plump lower lip, catch it between her teeth, to get her hands in her hair again, but this time to tug her closer, to make her gasp. She wants—

'Why did you come looking for me?' Grantaire asks, and Enjolras' eyes snap guiltily back up to Grantaire's own. She lets go of a shuddery breath.

'Because—I care about you.'

'You care about me.' Grantaire snorts at that.

Enjolras doesn't think about it, moves just as if it were Combeferre or Courfeyrac she was comforting; grabs Grantaire's hand and entwines it with her own. It's only when Grantaire blinks at her in shock that she realises she's crossed a line.

Grantaire doesn't pull away, though.

'I do,' Enjolras insists. 'And—what you said at the police station—'

'Oh, that.' Grantaire's eyes go shuttered. 'Just—forget I ever said that, okay? I told you I'm insane. That isn't news.'

'And I told you the concept of "insanity" is ableist, and I don't believe in it.' She squeezes Grantaire's hand tighter. 'What you said at the police station. I wish you'd said it sooner.'

'Why?' Grantaire's laugh comes out more like a sob. 'What'd be the point? What does it matter that someone like me has feelings for someone like you? You're fucking—celestial, or something. We don't belong on the same plane of existence.'

In the next split second, Enjolras makes up her mind. She shifts closer.

'It matters,' she says.

Grantaire's eyes widen. 'Enjolras—'

'It _matters_ ,' she says again, leans in, cupping Grantaire's jaw with her hand, and presses their lips together.

(A kiss. _My first_.)

She lets her eyes flutter closed. For the few moments the kiss lasts, she's aware of nothing more than the feeling of Grantaire's lips sliding unevenly against hers, and thundering of her own pulse in her ears. She's breathless when she pulls back, opens her eyes—and no sooner has she done so than Grantaire makes a high, needy sound in her throat, and launches forward, kissing her again, deeply and thoroughly, sliding a hand in to grab a fistful of Enjolras' hair.

It's hard and sloppy, and Grantaire keeps pushing forward until she's almost in Enjolras' lap, grinding against her hips. Grantaire’s desperation is catching; Enjolras hears herself making little choked-off noises into the kiss, her hands sliding down to Grantaire's hips, under Grantaire’s shirt, and _god_ , Grantaire’s skin there is fucking silk-smooth, and when Enjolras strokes along the waistband of her shorts, Grantaire shudders deliciously.

Grantaire breaks the kiss to nuzzle along Enjolras' jaw, mouthing at her neck, first softly and aimlessly, then with intent, sucking and biting until Enjolras cries out, head falling back, fingernails digging harder into Grantaire's hipbone. Grantaire doesn't let up in the slightest.

'Fuck you,' Enjolras says between breathy gasps, 'You're so fucking— _ugh_ —'

Grantaire laughs cruelly, and Enjolras slides her hand into Grantaire's shorts in revenge, gratified when Grantaire gives a sharp gasp and stills.

'Enjolras,' Grantaire whispers, sounding almost panicked, 'is this—are you—'

'Shhh,' Enjolras says, running one hand gently through Grantaire's damp hair while the other works further into Grantaire's underwear. 'It's okay. I want this. I want this _so much_ , R.' She makes a beckoning motion with her fingertip, swiping through Grantaire's core; she's soaking wet. 'You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,' Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire whimpers, buries her face in Enjolras' collarbone, grinding against her hand for no longer than thirty seconds before she goes tense all over, legs shaking, arching back and exhaling on a long, tremulous moan.

Enjolras' mouth goes dry; she has to squeeze her own thighs together.

'What was—' she gets out, 'was that—did you just—'

'Yeah,' Grantaire chokes out, launching forward to kiss her again, and Enjolras feels like she's flying apart.

It's a short race to the end after that. Grantaire slides off the couch, kneeling on the floor. She grabs Enjolras by the knees and hauls her forward to the edge of the couch in one sharp jerk, which is honestly deeply arousing; Enjolras is shivering through her nervous giggles. And then Grantaire's tugging Enjolras' jeans to her ankles, followed by her black briefs, which she peels down slowly, carefully, as if unwrapping a gift. She glances up at Enjolras through her eyelashes, once, reverent, before she goes to work with her tongue.

Enjolras can't watch, can only tip her head back, shut her eyes and arch into it. She’s gripping the couch throw painfully tight, rocking her hips in tiny, involuntary movements, aware vaguely that she’s mumbling nonsense, garbled praise and Grantaire’s name. When Grantaire murmurs, ‘Babe, I’m going to fuck you now, is that okay?’, her lips moving against Enjolras’ thigh, even that last shred of coherency evaporates.

Grantaire slides two fingers deep inside her, starts a hard, punishing rhythm, still mouthing wetly at Enjolras’ clit, and when Enjolras comes hard, in almost unbearably intense waves, she doesn’t recognise the sound that’s torn from her throat.

Grantaire climbs back onto the sofa next to her as she pants, sagging limply.

They breathe together like that for a long time.

-

‘So, that happened… fast.’

Enjolras nods in agreement, nuzzling into Grantaire’s collar. They’re still on the couch. Grantaire has drawn the throw over them both.

‘It was okay, though. Wasn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’ Enjolras places a butterfly kiss at the base of Grantaire’s neck. ‘It was so good, R.’

Grantaire hums.

‘You know, I haven’t had a proper look at these,’ Enjolras says, lightly tracing the tattoo on Grantaire’s bicep.

‘Ugh. They’re embarrassing, that’s why.’

‘What’s it meant to be?’ Enjolras squints. It’s a detailed rendering of an overflowing goblet held in a disembodied hand.

‘The Ace of Cups,’ Grantaire says. ‘It’s a tarot card. It’s supposed to signify the feeling of overflowing with love and emotion and creativity, that kind of thing.’

‘“My cup runneth over”?’

Grantaire laughs. ‘Yeah, but a bit more pagan.’

Enjolras leans back against her, enjoying the rumble of Grantaire’s voice. ‘And what are these?’

‘Just flowers. Mainly because they look pretty, but. They’re actually the ones Ophelia talks about in Hamlet when she’s losing it and about to kill herself.’

‘I’ve never seen Hamlet.’

‘You’ve never seen _Hamlet_?’

Enjolras shakes her head, and feels Grantaire shaking with laughter behind her.

‘Sorry. It was King Lear we did in school.’

‘Jesus.’

Enjolras resumes sweeping her fingertips up and down Grantaire’s arm, until she notices another tiny tattoo on Grantaire’s inner wrist.

‘I’ve never seen this one before.’

‘Oh, yeah, that. Just the cliché Venus symbol. First one I ever got, on my eighteenth birthday. The height of my baby feminist phase. A lot of riot grrl records were played to death, a lot of Jezebel articles pored over…’

‘You had the baby feminist phase?’

‘Duh.’

Enjolras’ heart swells. She lifts Grantaire’s wrist, kisses the tattoo three times, like a blessing.

‘I knew you cared about this stuff,’ she murmurs. ‘Knew you loved it just as much as me. Knew it.’

‘Well,’ Grantaire says, ‘don’t go spreading it around. I’ve got an image to maintain.’

Enjolras twists around, and pulls Grantaire down into a kiss. 

 


End file.
